


Once More With Feelings

by EllanaSan



Series: Hayffie Summer Week 2019 [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hayffie Summer Week, Temporary Amnesia, day 4: cliché tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 01:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20163367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllanaSan/pseuds/EllanaSan
Summary: HAymitch's body hurt in some places and he could hear machines beeping, which wasn’t a good sign. It meant he had been shipped to the Games Clinic because he had hurt himself enough to warrant a trip. But what had happened? He couldn’t remember the specifics. Chaff would know, probably. And Chaff was always around when he ended up in the Clinic so…





	Once More With Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Day4: Cliché Trope Cove! For my cliché trope, I chose amnesia ;)

Haymitch woke up slowly with the familiar but never comfortable sensation that an elephant had sat on his head. He didn’t try to open his eyes, knowing from experience that it would get worse before it got better.

His body hurt in some places and he could hear machines beeping, which wasn’t a good sign. It meant he had been shipped to the Games Clinic because he had hurt himself enough to warrant a trip. But what had happened? He couldn’t remember the specifics. Chaff would know, probably. And Chaff was always around when he ended up in the Clinic so…

He forced himself to open his eyes. It asked him more effort than he thought it would. His eyelids fluttered open and closed. The light in the room was too sharp and it took him a moment to orientate himself. Everything was bright and white… Not unexpected but distressing to his throbbing head.

“Haymitch!” a female voice exclaimed with relief to his right. “At last! I was beginning to think those doctors were wrong and you would _never _wake up!”

It took him a while to place that voice because his head was still spinning and it wasn’t who he had ever expected to sit at his bedside. The high pitch voice and the clipped accent were impossible to confuse though. They were too irritating for that.

_Trinket_.

It was her second year as his escort and already he was desperate for her to move on to another District. She was the _bane _of his existence. He had thought all his former escorts were annoying but this woman took the cake and ran with it. She was bossy, irritating in all the bad ways and she pushed all his buttons. She refused to be cowed, she refused to be seduced, she refused to be bribed… Apparently, her greatest joy in life was to make his own a living hell, policing what he did, with whom and where. She nagged and nagged when he didn’t help her with the tributes and she was a control freak who had to make sure _everything _was _perfect _all the _damn _time. She had declared herself in charge of his wardrobe, had auto-proclaimed herself his stylist and she wasn’t above hiding the liquor when he didn’t comply to her wishes. All they ever did was fight or, on their best civil days, exchange passive-aggressive comments.

And she did all that with a sweet smile and clueless blue eyes that, he was starting to suspect, actually hid some brains.

She loathed him and he hated her.

He wanted her gone like _yesterday _and she was eager to be promoted too so he wasn’t really sure what business she had holding a vigil next to his hospital bed.

Because they _were_ in a hospital room. His sight had cleared and it was a lot less blurry. The standard equipment was there, the traditional white walls, the TV in the corner, the plastic chairs for visitors, the small window showed…. He wasn’t sure. A street? Weird because the Games Clinic was on the upper floors of the Center, wasn’t it? Not at high as the penthouse but high enough… Mid-building for sure… Or at least he thought so.

Maybe they had moved it.

He didn’t keep up with the changes in the Games Compound and he didn’t listen to Trinket when she told him that sort of things.

“How are you feeling?” the escort insisted. A hand, _her _hand, fell on his forearm and gently rubbed the exposed skin in a way that was probably supposed to be comforting.

That made him frown.

They didn’t touch each other as a rule. First because he was pretty sure she wanted to slap some sense into him and, second, because he was also pretty sure he wanted to strangle some sense into her.

He finally dragged his eyes to her once he had stopped inspecting the room, vaguely wondering if the Gamemakers had cut the Clinic’s budget because it all looked less shiny and brand new than usual. He had to do a double take though.

He had _never _seen her without her make-up or her wigs - at least, he was fairly sure they were wigs because the frequency she changed hair-color, the amount of hair-dye would have otherwise made her bald. And yet there she stood now, her blond hair tied up in a messy braid that fell over her shoulder and her face mostly bared of powder and glitter. There _was _some make-up, he thought, but it was… _light_. She didn’t look like a freak anymore and that disturbed him more than the weird feeling of dread he was starting to develop.

“Must have been bad if you went around walking like _that_.” he commented at last, his voice coming out rougher than he had intended.

He coughed a couple of times and took another second to make sure everything in his body was in working order. Legs and arms were working fine so he pushed himself to a sitting position, a bit annoyed when she immediately rushed to fuss with the pillows behind him. He wasn’t impotent and he didn’t need her help. He did a double-take at her face, noticed the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the lines around her mouth that came from too much smiling…

“You look _ancient_.” he mocked. A part of him couldn’t help but be impressed. She _actually _made it look like she wasn’t a day over twenty with the make-up. If hard-pressed, he would have guessed she was around twenty-three but her refusal to give her actual age now made a lot of more sense. Did the Gamemakers know they had hired a _grandma _to play escort?

“I see you woke up in a _jolly _mood.” she huffed, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. She sat on the bed, next to his hip, as if it was absolutely normal for her to be so much in his space and didn’t seem to get his hint when he purposefully wriggled closer to the opposite edge. Her hand came back on his forearm. “You are not that young yourself anymore, you know? You _ought _to stop giving me scares like this.”

Her blue eyes became shiny and she averted them, her jaw visibly clenching. She _really _looked upset. Not just putting up a show but _genuinely _upset. And it made _zero _sense to him.

If you had asked him yesterday, he would have thought she would have been the first one to cheer if he ever broke his neck while drunk.

Besides, he wasn’t _that _old. He wasn’t even thirty yet and wouldn’t be for another couple of months. As he was fond of reminding Chaff, he still belonged in the _young _category.

Unlike her who looked like she was in her mid-forties…

“What happened?” he asked. He still felt a bit dizzy and he still had a headache but it didn’t have the fuzzy quality of a post-binge night. Besides, his body was sore, that much he could tell. His back, he realized suddenly, his back felt badly bruised.

“You do not remember?” she replied, her fingers clenching around his forearm.

He not so subtly moved his arm so she would let him go. He wasn’t fond of strangers touching him and Trinket, for all that whole year of acquaintance, was still a stranger. She didn’t seem to think anything of it, she let her hand fall back on her lap.

That brought his attention to her clothes. She always wore ridiculous looking dresses and he made it a point to never really look unless it was to throw how ugly she looked at her face. But what she was wearing… The skirt was a dark blue and it looked flowy, like it would rise up if she ever did something as girly as spin on herself. There was a golden buckle on her stomach but that was the only adornment the skirt had. Her top was a pale pink with short sleeves and some frills on the neckline. It looked very simple to him and he was _fairly _sure she wouldn’t have been caught _dead _looking like _that _outside of her bedroom.

It was as unsophisticated as it got for the Capitol.

It actually looked _good_.

“Sweetheart, am I dying?” he asked really seriously.

No wig, no make-up and no fancy clothes… It would take a mountain for Effie Trinket to leave that behind, even to sit at somebody’s death bed.

“Are you in pain?” she immediately replied, bolting to her feet. “I will fetch the doctor.”

She was already dashing away before he could answer.

“Right.” he said to the empty room. “You do that.”

After a moment of hesitation, he sat up properly, not leaning against the pillows anymore but crossing his legs, and considered the tubes that disappeared in the crook of his arm. He felt a bit weird but not _drugged_-weird so there was probably nothing in those bags worth suffering the drip. He checked under the raspy white hospital sheets but there were, _fortunately_, no tubes anywhere else. However he would need clothes because that hospital gown was paper thin and not designed for privacy.

He tore the needle out of his arm just in time to hear the familiar clicking of heels rushing by. She was followed by a man with dark-hair and a beard who looked harried and not entirely pleased.

“I wish you wouldn’t do _that, _Haymitch.” the man sighed. “_Every _time. Can’t you wait for me or one of the nurses?”

Haymitch’s eyebrows shot up but he didn’t comment when the doctor - he supposed, he was a doctor given the white coat and the stethoscope around his neck - checked the crook of his elbow and applied a bandage, all the while mumbling about difficult patients. He had no idea who the doctor was but he never really paid attention when he was in the Clinic anyway.

“Are you in pain?” the doctor asked, fishing a small pen-like flashlight out of his pocket and flashing it in each of his eyes.

Haymitch looked away with a groan. “Now _yes_.”

“He does not remember the accident.” Trinket cut in. She was standing next to him again, close enough that it made him nervous. Her arms were folded and she was chewing a little on her bottom lip. She looked nervous or scared or _something_.

“That’s not uncommon with head injuries.” the doctor answered in a reassuring voice. “He was coherent enough when he came in yesterday. I have the new scan we did this morning and it looks good.”

“Yesterday?” Haymitch frowned. He couldn’t remember the previous day _at all_. And the day before that…

His stomach churned with something akin to the beginning of _panic_.

“It was my fault.” Trinket volunteered, her voice small and vulnerable like he had never heard it. “If I hadn’t insisted…”

“What the _fuck _happened?” he snapped. He had very low tolerance for her self-pity. He had laughed at her the previous year when she had cried after losing her first set of tributes because it had been a better alternative than bashing her head in. She didn’t get to cry. Not when she was the one who had drawn those kids’ names in the first place.

“Language.” she corrected like she always did. “You fell while you were cleaning the gutters. There were so many dead leaves, they were starting to clog and I was _so_ sure it would rain again…” She sighed. “You did not want to do it and I made a fuss so in the end you caved and… I was in the kitchen, I did not see you fall but I heard you shout and then the noise of the ladder hitting the ground and by the time I came out of the house you were lying there and I thought… I thought you were _dead_.”

Her voice broke and some tears rolled down her cheeks.

He could only stare at her as she hugged herself tighter.

“The _fuck _would I have been cleaning your gutters for?” he scoffed after a minute and then he frowned. “Is that a sex metaphor?” He turned back to the doctor. “I think you should check _her _head. She’s being very weird.”

Right then, someone knocked on the open door and he looked up, expecting to see Chaff – who, at this point, he could probably have kissed in relief to have someone _sane _in his corner – but it was a couple around his age. The woman had grey eyes, dark hair and faded burn scars on her neck, her skin was the same olive shade as his. She was wearing dark pants, sturdy boots, a green sweater under a leather jacket and her hair was done in the same kind of braid Trinket had. The man had blond sandy hair, blue eyes and a lot of muscles. He also had a small discreet limp that the brown loose pants didn’t entirely hide.

If he hadn’t known any better, Haymitch would have thought they were from Twelve. The Seam and the town respectively. But people from Twelve had no business being in the city and they looked too close to him in age for him not to know them at least by sight if it had been the case.

The woman looked relieved and she flashed him a tight smile. “Good, you’re up.”

“Finally…” the man chuckled. “I know you like your sleep but you were starting to push it.” He moved past his friend and handed a plastic cup to Trinket. “I got you some coffee.”

“Thank you, dear.” Trinket muttered as if in reflex. She took the cup but her blue eyes were riveted to Haymitch with something that looked like suspicion and the cup ended up untouched on the small table next to the bed.

“So, can we take him home now?” The dark-haired woman’s question was directed at the doctor.

She looked just as happy to be in a hospital as Trinket did. Her eyes kept darting around, taking in her surroundings in a way that told him she was used to danger… His grey eyes fell on the scars on her neck. The way she moved, the way she assessed her environment, the scars… In this city it wasn’t a leap to conclude she was a victor. She looked familiar. He should have known who she was. At least, he felt like he should have known.

The feeling of panic increased one inch.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Trinket let out a strangled sound but the woman simply rolled her eyes. “Ha. Ha. Very funny, Haymitch.”

The doctor and the young man, he noticed, were looking at him with rapt attention.

Haymitch licked his lips, not reassured at all when the doctor stepped into his line of sigh with that small flashlight again. He grabbed his wrist before the man could even _think _about blinding him once more.

The panic was starting to make him angry and that wasn’t a good combination given the headache that wouldn’t go away.

“Don’t touch me.” Haymitch growled.

“Haymitch.” Trinket’s voice was soft, almost soothing. “Do you know who _I _am?”

“A pain in my ass.” he barked back with a glare. “Get me Chaff.”

Whatever this was, Chaff would sort it out. Chaff was more than his best friend, he was his brother in every way that counted and he trusted him more than anyone else on this earth. He wasn’t feeling that hot and he didn’t like that so many people, so many _strangers, _were standing so close to him in such a small space.

To the risk of sounding like a frightened kid who wanted his mother, he wouldn’t feel safe until Eleven’s victor was there to guard his back.

Chaff’s name seemed to have frozen the room. The blond man and the dark-haired woman shared a wide-eyed look, the doctor’s frown deepened and Trinket’s breathing audibly increased to something that wasn’t quite panting but was close to it.

“Effie.” the blond man said gently, breaking the spell that had fallen on the room. He reached out and grabbed her hand, giving it a small squeeze. “It’s alright.”

“I am fine.” she promised with a poor excuse of a smile. “It is just… Well, I know it is silly but hospitals…”

“I know.” the man answered in the same gentle voice. “But we’re here, you’re safe. Haymitch is just a little confused.”

“I _ain’t _confused.” he scoffed. “It’s the lot of you who are confused.”

“Haymitch.” the doctor said, bringing his attention back on him. He let go of the man’s wrist but glared at the flashlight with enough strength that, hopefully, the stranger would understand using it again wasn’t an option. “Do you know where you are?”

The question was neutral. Not judgmental or accusative or even coddling and that was the only reason Haymitch answered it at all. “Hospital.” And then after a moment, he added. “Games Clinic. Capitol.” He looked back at Trinket who was staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers. “Ain’t kidding, Trinket. Get me Chaff. _Now_.”

He was still the boss of her, no matter what she liked to pretend. Mentors trumped escorts and that was it.

She dropped her eyes and then looked at the doctor. “What’s wrong with him?”

“_Nothing’s_ wrong with me.” he snarled before the man could answer.

“Do you have a headache?” the doctor asked. “Nausea? Dizziness?”

He almost lied. Almost.

“Yeah.” he admitted finally.

“The scans are clear.” the doctor declared, turning toward Trinket as if it was _her _problem. “Memory loss isn’t uncommon when head trauma is involved. It _was_ a big fall.”

“I’ve got _no _memory loss.” Haymitch snapped, pushing the sheets that were still on his legs away so he could stand up.

That, he quickly figured out, was a mistake. He swayed where he was and only remained upright because the dark-haired woman grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Sit back down before you fall again.” Trinket snapped.

And, for some reason, as if it was an ingrained response to obey when she used _that _tone, he sat back down. The woman didn’t let go at once, she was searching his face, looking for… He wasn’t sure what.

“This isn’t the Capitol.” the woman said slowly, releasing her grip on his arm. “We’re in Twelve and Chaff’s been dead a decade.”

He sucked in a breath and started shaking his head even before the young man, the doctor and Trinket all started rebuking her about her lack of tact.

“Quiet!” the escort suddenly ordered over the chaos. It didn’t do anything good to his headache but, at least, it brought back some semblance of calm.

“You’re having me on.” he hissed, as soon as he could be heard again. “This is a _trick_. I did _something_, whatever it was, and now Snow…”

“Snow is dead.” Trinket cut him off, placing a hand on his shoulder. She was behind him, on the other side of the bed and he didn’t like having her where he couldn’t see her. He didn’t like having anyone at his back. “You are safe, Haymitch. I promise.”

“And _your _word is worth _what_?” he taunted, shifting so he could watch everyone at once.

“How old do you think you are?” the doctor asked. Again, it was professional, assessing, not… judgmental.

“Twenty-nine.” he answered without hesitation. “We’re in the middle of the Sixty-third Hunger Games.” He searched his mind for more details but everything was blurry. He couldn’t remember if the Games had already started or if they were still in the middle of training. He couldn’t remember what he had been doing the previous day or the day before that. He couldn’t remember how Twelve was doing in the polls - although he could _guess. _But he was even more unwilling to admit that. “Our tributes’ names are…”

He drew a blank but that didn’t prove anything. How often did he pay attention to the tributes unless he felt they had what it would take to win?

Still, he looked at Trinket expectantly because it was her job to help him out when it came to tributes.

It took her almost a minute to supply the names though, as if she had been forced to _remember _to. “Leah and Mason. They died within five minutes of the launch.” She said it regretfully but the grief felt old. 

“So we’re out already?” he asked.

“We’ve been out a long time.” the blond man said quietly. “Haymitch, you’re _fifty_.”

He laughed at that. “Ain’t much older than you. _And _I look better.”

He wriggled his eyebrows at the dark-haired woman with one of his trademark charmer smiles.

She made a disgusted face. “_Gross_! You’re like _my dad_. Stop that.”

That d-word hit him straight in the plexus and he looked back at Trinket again. “_You_ look old.”

“That is twice today you have implied as much and I won’t be forgiving much longer, amnesia notwithstanding.” she retorted. “Besides, I am _still _younger than you.” She sounded smug about that but it quickly faded into worry when she looked at the doctor who had wandered away to look scans over while they were talking. “Doctor?”

The man shook his head. “There’s really nothing wrong on the scans and his tests are good. The new treatment is working extremely well, by the way, but we can talk about that during his next appointment… The amnesia seems partial and I’m confident it will fade away in a few days, maybe even a few hours… It’s likely he will never remember the accident itself and, he might lose a few days before that, but there’s no reason to think he won’t recover his memory in time.”

“I am _not _amnesic.” Haymitch spat, nodding at Trinket. “I remember _her _very well and if anything you say is true, I don’t see what _she _would be doing _in Twelve_. She looks too old to still be an escort unless fashion’s to _grandmas _now. _And _I wouldn’t have lasted… How old you said I was? Fifty? I wouldn’t have lasted twenty-two _fucking _years with her for an escort without strangling her.”

Twenty-two years was unheard of for an escort anyway. The best run was fifteen years and it was rare. Escorts were usually pushed out when they hit thirty, thirty-five if they were particularly famous and pretty.

“I am not your escort anymore.” she whispered. She sounded hurt and a part of him felt bad which made him angry because, really, what did he care about her feelings?

“What? You made it to Gamemaker?” he mocked. He wouldn’t have put it past her. She was ambitious, that one. And if he wasn’t wrong about her doll act being an act, she had brains to spare.

“You’re not _listening_.” the dark-hair woman snapped. “There are no more escorts or Gamemakers. That’s over. The Games are over.”

They were all _batshit _crazy.

“Right.” he snorted. “So what _is _she doing here?” He studied her and smirked a cruel taunting smirk. “Don’t tell me. Somewhere down the line, I’ve fallen in love with her and now we’re living happily ever after. The victor and the escort, a love story for the ages.”

Trinket flinched but her features remained schooled in a bland expression of polite interest he had decided early on in their acquaintance was meant to make you feel she wasn’t happy with you while making it impossible for you to accuse her of it.

“Haymitch.” the blond man snapped reproachfully.

“I would not say it is a love story for the ages, no.” Trinket answered slowly, ignoring the other man. “But we _do _live happily enough.”

“You’re joking.” he scoffed. _He _certainly had been. “You’re the last woman in the world I’d so much as _touch_.”

That wasn’t strictly true. He _would _have slept with her if she had let him. Well, he would have slept with the version of her who had make-up because now she looked old and he wasn’t exactly into older women…

“Okay. _Enough_.” the blond man demanded and Haymitch glared at him. “We get it. You’re confused and when you’re confused or hurt, you lash out. That’s no reason to hurt Effie’s feelings like that.”

“I don’t like you.” he commented.

Instead of hurting him, it seemed to amuse him. “You didn’t like me much the first time we met either. At least, until I punched you in the face.”

“That ought to do it.” Haymitch shrugged, relaxing a little. “So? What happened? Snow died and the Games stopped?”

The doctor cleared his throat and excuse himself to check on other patients, promising he would be back soon and they could discuss keeping him in the hospital or sending him back home. It annoyed Haymitch to no end because he was talking to _Trinket _instead of talking to _him_ as if she was somehow _responsible _for him.

“There was a war.” the dark-haired woman said in a quiet voice.

And then she started talking.

It was a pretty story. He listened as she told him about how he had apparently managed to get two victors out of a single edition of the Games and how he had started a star-crossed lovers story that had ultimately led to a war he had helped to win as a tactician… She made it sound as if he had engineered most of it but Trinket and the young man - _Peeta_, as it turned out - offered corrections here and there and, he figured, _she _was the hero of that story. The Mockingjay. Nice name for a hero.

“It’s been close to ten years of peace.” she concluded in a tone that told him she still was wary about that, as if she was expecting the second shoe to drop any minute.

Katniss had stuck to historical facts mostly and it left a lot of gaps.

“How did _you _end up with the rebels, then?” he asked Trinket. Maybe if she had been a rebel all along he could buy the love thing. Maybe if she hadn’t simply been a clueless stupid escort… 

“I didn’t.” she denied. “I was supposed to join you and the children in Thirteen but I was captured by the Capitol before I got there.”

He frowned. “Captured?”

“The details are irrelevant.” she dismissed. She rubbed her right shoulder as if it bothered her but she didn’t seem really aware of it. Peeta’s eyes tracked her every move though and he had a feeling the man was ready to act if Trinket… _What_? The guy acted as if he expected her to lose it any second. “What matters is that we are all living in Twelve, we are safe and we are happy.”

“And you and me are married.” he added in a tone that let her know just how ridiculous he found the notion.

Something flashed on her face. Surprise, maybe. “We never made it formal but we did have a toasting a couple of years ago.”

That Effie Trinket knew about _toastings _rendered him momentarily speechless but he soon chuckled because the whole thing… A Rebellion? Him being _fifty? _ Being married to _her_?

“You’re having me on.” he decided. “This is a candid camera for one of your sick reality shows… What is it called, sweetheart?_ Trick the victor?_ _You believe you lose? Surprise, it was all a scam?”_

Trinket sighed but didn’t seem entirely surprised by his disbelief. “Do you _truly_ believe for one second that President Snow would allow a show to imply that the world would be a better place without him and the Games? And, more to the point, do you truly think the woman you remember from the Sixty-Third Hunger Games would have agreed to appear on TV looking like _this_?”

She waved at herself and he was forced to purse his lips. “To spite me?”

“_Even_ to spite you.” she retorted, a little haughtily.

That was more _her_, more the woman he was used to and he was forced to admit… “I guess not.” He licked his lips. “Okay. _Okay_. Say, I believe you…”

“It is easy enough to prove.” Katniss shrugged. “You only have to step outside. Twelve was bombed to the ground during the war so it looks different but the Village is the same.”

_Convenient_, a voice whispered in his head. They could have recreated the Village. They could have recreated Twelve too. If they wanted to make him believe…

But Trinket was right… Implying the Games weren’t good… Nobody in Panem with a survival instinct would go there….

The doctor came back before much else could be said and, once again, there was a lot of talking about him as if he wasn’t even in the room. After long minutes of discussion during which the doctor told Trinket _three times _that he was physically as fine as could be - and she actually _did _look worried, which puzzled him a little - it was decided that rest and a familiar environment would be the best option. He also had the feeling that everyone wanted to get Trinket as far from the hospital as possible, doctor included, because it was quickly becoming obvious she _really _wasn’t at ease there. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought she was _scared_.

He didn’t get to leave _at once. _They waited until they were sure the dizziness was gone. The headaches, he was told, would probably stick around for a few days but with a couple of painkillers it wasn’t that bad.

_Finally, _he was allowed out of bed and he had to argue with Trinket for ten minutes before she consented to leave the room while he got dressed. She only agreed when he gave up and said Peeta could stay and help if needed.

Help was _not _needed because he didn’t need another man to put some pants on, thank you very much.

There was some more debating after that about if they should walk or try to find a car so he didn’t over-exhaust himself… Haymitch rolled his eyes halfway through and stormed off ahead, not entirely surprised when Katniss eventually caught up and kept up with his hurried pace.

Trinket and Peeta hung back a few feet behind them, either because of the man’s slight limp or because they wanted to talk in private. He and Katniss _didn’t _talk.

Haymitch was too busy watching everything. Twelve _did _look different. For one thing, people looked happy enough, they didn’t look starved anymore and the streets were actually free of coal dust. The buildings looked new, or at least, new enough but the foundations were more like what he remembered. Some of them looked like weird hybrids, as if they had been rebuilt on ruins.

The bakery was one of those.

Katniss touched his arm when they passed by it - she didn’t grab or try to hold him back, she just _touched _and that was why he stopped. He was confused up until Peeta pulled keys out of his pocket and unlocked the doors.

“We are out of bread.” Trinket explained once Katniss and Peeta had both walked inside. She didn’t meet his eyes and she was clearly ill-at-ease. He didn’t say anything because the fact that she was telling him they were out of bread felt so domestic and surreal that he didn’t know what to do with it.

Fortunately for him a group of laughing kids dashed by on their bike. That was such an incongruous sight… Not in the city, of course, but in _Twelve?_ One of the boys braked and put his foot down to wave at them. He was around fourteen or fifteen or so, Haymitch thought.

“Hello!” the kid said. “Mrs A, is it okay if I come on Thursday instead of Tuesday this week? I have a math test on Wednesday and I really suck at math so I need to study some more…”

“Of course, Keelan.” Trinket agreed immediately with a small smile. “Actually, if you would not mind… The gutters need cleaning, I will pay extra for it, naturally, but it might be good if you could borrow your father’s ladder… Ours is… unreliable.”

“Sure, thing!” the boy grinned. “Bye, Mrs A! Bye, Mr A!”

In a flash, he was gone, the bike racing to catch up with his friends…

“He mows the lawn for us.” the escort explained. “And he takes care of the flowers.”

He couldn’t picture his garden overgrown with weeds with any flowers in it so he just stopped trying.

“Mrs _A_?” he snorted. “Thought you said we _weren’t _actually married…”

“We are married in all the ways that count.” she snapped, tossing him a glare. “And it might _not _be official but the children… We live together, most of the people assume we _are _married. It is easier this way.”

“Easier for who?” he deadpanned. “I really don’t get how we ended up here, sweetheart… You don’t even get me hot…”

That was, perhaps, a small lie. There had been times… But that was irrelevant. She was _an escort_. He couldn’t understand how he had found himself tied up with _an escort._

“Things change.” she replied.

“Not so much.” he sneered. “You’re still a _bitch_, you’re still Capitol and you’re still responsible for kids dying.” She didn’t give him the pleasure of letting him know the comment had hurt but he knew it had hit home because her face hardened. Maybe she had been expecting it. “It’s _twisted_.” he insisted. “You and me, it’s sick and twisted.”

“Yes.” she agreed quietly. “It was for a long time. Please, tell the children I went ahead. I need some space.”

_The children_. It was weird of her to refer to Katniss and Peeta as _children _when they looked close to thirty. Like him. Except he wasn’t twenty-nine, was he? He was fifty. Or so they claimed.

_The children, _in any case, weren’t happy with the pronouncement that Effie had left, they kept tossing him reproachful looks and, in the end, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Okay, if what you told me is true… You were tributes, _twice_, and she was your escort.” he grumbled. “How do you _not _hate her?”

“She’s part of the team.” Katniss retorted as if it explained everything.

Peeta was a little less nonchalant about it. “Don’t upset her. It’s been years since she had a panic attack.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Why would she have panic attacks?”

“She was hurt during the war.” Katniss exclaimed. “She told you.”

No, she hadn’t. She had said she had been _captured_. By _the Capitol_. She was a Capitol citizen and she was simply too famous to disappear without people noticing. What was the worst they could have done to her? Scream at her? She was such a naive cowardly little thing, it had probably been enough to subdue her. They wouldn't’ have touched a loyal Capitol citizen.

“Doesn’t erase the fact she was an escort.” he insisted.

“That argument coming from _you…_” Peeta scowled with disgust. “Don’t let her hear you say any of that stuff, you hear me? You’ll be sorry for it when you get your memories back in a couple of days.”

He couldn’t imagine he would be, no.

Truth was truth.

It was black and white. Victors and escorts. Tributes and Gamemakers. Slaves and masters. No room for shades of grey in there.

Still, both of them looked angry with him now so he shut up and kept his peace until they reached the Village.

Katniss had said it was the same but it wasn’t. It was _inhabited _now. Most of the houses looked lived-in and that was… downright _odd_. He was used to being the only one wandering along those streets. It was a ghost town usually. _His _ghost town. 

His house didn’t look like his house.

It had been repainted at some point, the walls were white, the blinds were blue, the fence and the gate weren’t as decrepit as he remembered them. There _were _flower beds everywhere and it would have looked perfect - and absolutely not _him _\- if a goose hadn’t wandered from the backyard to the front. Katniss and Peeta didn’t say anything so he supposed that it wasn’t actually lost but belonged there.

The old bench that had been sitting next to the front door on the porch for as long as he remembered was gone, replaced by a slightly rusty swing seat that had been painted the same blue as the blinds and the door. The windows were all clean enough that he could see through them and there weren’t any empty bottles or trash bags that he could see.

Katniss thrust the loaf of bread in his hands as well as a box that, he supposed, contained pastries, and sent him in with a last warning not to upset Trinket.

He wasn’t sure he liked that woman.

The inside of the house was, if possible, even less familiar than the outside had been. It was his house, no doubt about that, most of the furniture were his and he knew he could have moved around with his eyes closed. But it looked so… _different_. The walls had been repainted, some of the furniture had been changed, he spotted curtains in the living-room and everything looked so clean and tidy, it smelt fresh and flowery… His house, as he remembered it, had been a dumpster or barely more than that.

Trinket, it turned out, was in the kitchen aggressively cleaning the counter top as if it had personally offended her. That wasn’t something he had ever thought he would see either. Trinket cleaning…

He placed the bread and the box on the table, staring at the sunshine yellow walls of his previously brown kitchen with wide eyes and wondered what had gone through his head to choose such a vivid color.

“You should get some rest.” Trinket offered without turning to look at him. “Or take a shower and change clothes, at least. You will be more comfortable.”

_That _didn’t sound like a bad idea and he silently walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs, wondering what the _fuck _was going on.

The bedroom was, maybe, more shocking than the rest of the house. There was a dressing table in a corner that used to hold an old armchair and there was an additional dresser crammed between the wardrobe and the wall. The nightstand opposite his side of the bed was neatly organized with an alarm clock, a lamp that matched the one on the other nightstand, a notebook and two tubes of cream as if the dressing table wasn’t already full of make-up, hair and jewelry stuff. The other bedside table was much less ordered. There were a couple of books, the lamp, a pair of black glasses he didn’t feel he needed and some knick-knacks like a lost chess piece.

There also were framed pictures on the walls but he didn’t really look at those because it spooked him to see an older man who _could _be him with his arms wrapped around Effie Trinket as if he was holding the most precious thing he had ever seen.

Because he was curious he opened drawers at random. Most of them contained folded clothes that belonged to a woman. There was one full of lingerie he spent some time studying, wondering if that was _why _he had come to like her. She _did _seem to like kinky underwear… Eventually, he located a pair of sweatpants and a shirt and retreated to the bathroom that had been just as colonized as the bedroom.

He had always thought the house was too big but now he was rethinking that. When there was someone else sharing the space, it didn’t look that big… He pushed some of her stuff to put his clothes where they wouldn’t get wet and splashed some water on his face before taking a look at himself in the mirror.

The reflection shocked him.

Up until then, he had been slightly convinced this was all a sham despite the fact it was highly improbable for anyone in the Capitol to imply Panem would be better off free. How could he not? It all sounded so… _wonderful… _A free Panem, peace, no more Games… It sounded too good to be true and if it sounded like that it probably _was_. That he had supposedly chosen to settle down - which was already highly unlikely - with his escort was puzzling but… The idea that _he _had apparently managed to find some _happiness _on top if it all… That was what really made him doubt because it seemed so impossible to him. Happiness was a ship that had come and gone. 

And yet the reflection told him everything they had said was true.

The Capitol could do a lot of things but they couldn’t age his face twenty and some years.

He had always been so handsome he had taken it for granted. The man in the mirror was old, with grey stubble that ate his jaw and chin-length hair that was more silver than dirty blond, he was thin but in a way that told him he was in the process of putting weight back rather than losing it, there were a lot of wrinkles around his eyes. He had accused Trinket of being _old _but he looked far worse.

He _was _old.

The whole thing was true.

He collapsed more than he sat down on the bathroom’s cold floor that had, at some point, been replaced with white tiles with pale blue swirls.

°O°O°O°O°

It had been four years since Effie Trinket’s last panic attack.

She repeated that fact to herself again and again as she scrubbed the kitchen counter, even though it was already perfectly clean. It was either keeping on scrubbing or giving in to the urge to go on a cleaning spree that would encompass the whole house.

_And the house was clean_, she told herself firmly, _it didn’t need it. _

At long last, she heard the familiar clinging of pipes and the boiler flaring up in the basement and she allowed herself a sigh of relief knowing that Haymitch had finally stepped into the shower and that she had a few minutes of privacy ahead of her. He had been upstairs for close to fifteen minutes already and she had been starting to wonder if she should investigate.

She tossed the sponge in the sink and flopped on one of the kitchen chairs, propping her elbows on the table and burying her face in her hands. The last twenty-four hours had been difficult and she had forced herself to endure and be strong for the children’s sake but...

She had been _so scared. _

She _had known _she shouldn't have asked Haymitch to clean the gutter, that it wasn’t a good idea. But he was always accusing her of coddling him nowadays, of treating him _differently, _and when he was in that sort of mood he tended to do stupid things like chopping wood even though it was very bad for his stomach. She hadn't wanted to start another fight by asking Keelan to take care of it when it wasn't _that _hard a job that he couldn't do it himself. He had grumbled about it for hours anyway because he was _never _happy. Either he was irritated because she didn’t ask him or he was irritated because she _did_.

She had heard him shout in surprise before she had heard the noise of the ladder hitting the ground in a chorus of honking. And when she had run outside…

He had been lying there, in the middle of his gaggle of angry geese, head rolled to the side and eyes closed…

She had thought she had lost him.

She had remained frozen for one second before running back inside to call for help and she had thought _this is it, this time, I’m alone now _and it had terrified her sick. She wasn’t ready to lose him. She would _never_ be ready to lose him. It had seemed even more crueler now that they had _finally_ beaten the odds… They were supposed to grow old together. That was what they had agreed on.

But he was fine, she reminded herself, he was _fine. _She was shaking a little but she knew it was only the adrenaline finally coming down. He was fine and she could let herself breathe.

The noises stopped and she heard him move around upstairs. She clenched her jaw and stood up, feeling the need to be active in case he came back down. All she wanted to do was drag him to bed and snuggle close to him, let him hold her and mumble promises in her hair that he was alright and it was over… _This _Haymitch though… He wouldn't let her close.

She could have done without the amnesia.

And if he _had _to be amnesiac she would have preferred it had been a complete mind wipe rather than this weird… _ghost-like _situation. Twenty-eight year-old Haymitch had _hated _her – and she had hated him back. Why would his mind go back to _that _particular time? Did it mean anything or was she searching for rational explanations where there were none?

They had been joking about who had been attracted to the other first, the previous day, like they often did. Had he been thinking about that when he had fallen? Had it done it?

But he had woken up before the ambulance even reached the hospital and he had seemed coherent then. He had known who she was, who his doctor was… He had tried to weasel his way out of getting a pet scan and a night of observation…

She heard the stairs creak and she hastily grabbed a few vegetables from the pantry. It was a little early for dinner but she had skipped lunch and she needed something to do. She could deal with a hateful Haymitch for a while, she told herself, she had dealt with it for years. In a few hours, a few days at worst, he would be back to himself and everything would be fine.

She had just grown too used to Haymitch watching her with love in his eyes, touching her with tenderness just because she was within reach and fighting with her without any true anger.

It had been close to a decade since he had been as hurtful with her as this Haymitch insisted on being.

Her heart started racing when she heard his footsteps coming closer and she realized she had hoped he would go to the living-room and avoid her. She felt cowardly and berated herself. This _was_ her Haymitch. He was just injured and that would pass.

She was sitting at the kitchen table with a cutting board and a large knife, chopping carrots when he appeared on the threshold, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. He looked more awkward than hostile now. He had also found the checkered sweatpants and the blue long-sleeved shirt that Haymitch favored so maybe a part of him was still there and it wouldn't be long at all before he became himself again now that he was home.

He watched her for a while and she focused on cutting the carrots, too scared that meeting his eyes would launch him into another rant about her being an escort.

“So…” he said eventually, sounding unsure. “We have geese.”

His tone was careful, probing, as if he wasn’t certain she knew what the geese’s meaning were. His brother had always wanted some and Haymitch would never have kept any unless he hadn’t not only been sure peace would last but also finally put his ghosts to rest.

She wondered if _he _knew. When she had met him, he had been twenty-eight and as immature as it got. Acting out, determined to rub everyone the wrong way, so deeply unhappy he had been embracing the bad boy persona, hating the whole world… It had been a while before he had changed. Well after they had started sleeping together but before it had turned into something less spontaneous than quick tumbles against a wall.

She hadn’t exactly been the best version of herself either at that time. She could understand why he would hate her.

“They wandered in your yard and you kept them.” she offered. “That was before I came back.”

“_Came back…” _he repeated thoughtfully, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Meaning you _left_.” There was some satisfaction in his tone, as if it proved _something. _She watched him walk to the cupboards and didn’t answer because she didn’t want to rehash that time after the rebellion where she had felt so lost and fragile she had thought the wrong word would be enough to break her. He couldn’t have been really interested in the explanation anyway because he rummaged in the cupboards for something and then turned around with a frown. “Where do I keep the booze now?”

The knife slipped and she cut her hand.

He had moved before she could do anything but stare at the blood, vaguely wondering why _all_ her triggers had to be pulled _that _day of all days.

“_Shit_.” he spat, grabbing her wrist and wrapping a cloth around her hand. The white fabric immediately turned red.

When he tugged on her arm, she stood up and followed him to the sink, a distant ringing in her ears. She flinched when he forced her hand under the running water but she kept it there when he briefly disappeared. The blood trickled down and her head started spinning.

“Hey. Don’t faint on me, Trinket.” he grumbled. A hand guided her back to a chair. She didn't ask how he had known where to find the first aid kit. “The bleeding stopped. Ain't that deep… Here.” She hissed when he cleaned the wound but she felt much better once he had it hidden under a bandage. “Don’t be a baby. It's just a cut.”

She _wasn’t _being a baby and she had had worse but she supposed he didn't remember that.

“You cannot drink.” she said. He looked up from the wound to meet her eyes, a spark of challenge in his eyes. Telling him he _couldn't _do something was never the right approach. “You are sober. Almost two years.” she added quickly.

Something flashed on his face, understanding or something close to it, but it was soon replaced by a sneer. “You’ve got me by the balls, don’t you?”

“I _never _asked you to stop drinking.” she snapped. “I know why you need it. _Needed _it.” She shook her head, her voice breaking a little. It was still all too fresh. “Your liver was failing.”

“Fitting end for a drunk.” he snorted. “How am I still kicking then?”

“There are clinics in the Capitol… They can grow tailor made organs from your DNA.” she explained. “It is expensive and you were not fond of where that technology came from.” _Mutts_. It was mutt technology. “But you were even less fond of dying.” That was a small lie. He would have accepted dying, she thought, if she and the children hadn’t pleaded and begged and threatened. It was her turning into a sobbing mess at two a.m. and begging him on her knees not to leave her that had finally decided him. “The graft was very successful. It was a long recovery but you made it and you are _finally_ completely healthy again. You still have to follow a treatment though but I will remind you when it is time for your pills.” She waved her injured hand and regretted it when it throbbed. “The point is… you _cannot _drink. _Please.”_

She had worked herself into a panic and he was staring at her as if she was a bomb ready to explode.

“Okay.” he quickly caved. “Okay. No need to get so upset, sweetheart.”

She let out a long breath and licked her lips, aware she was shaking again. “I do not cope well with the thought of losing you.”

“Yeah…” He frowned. “Can see that.”

The conversation came to a stall and he stood up to toss the bloodied knife in the sink. Because her nerves were frayed and she wanted a distraction, she stood up too to fix themselves some tea.

The silence was awkward.

“What were you slaughtering those poor carrots for?” he mocked eventually, inspecting her work while she poured hot water into two mugs.

“I thought we could have some soup tonight but… You are usually the one taking care of the cooking.” she answered, making sure to keep her voice even.

“You _don’t_ say. You can’t boil water.” he accused and she wasn’t sure if it was something he had remembered or just a shot in the dark.

“I just did.” she huffed and placed one of the mugs next to him on the table. She saw the flash of surprise on his face when he took a sip. Because she knew how to prepare tea to his liking. Herbal, one lump of sugar.. It wasn’t _that_ difficult.

“Right.” he snorted and sat down on the chair she had previously occupied. She wasn’t sure when he had grabbed another knife - and perhaps she ought to have been concerned about that - but he started chopping carrots a lot more precisely and efficiently.

After a moment of hesitation, she sat down too, cradling her mug in her hands. “How do you feel? Is the headache better?”

“Some.” he answered after a second. “Not much.” He licked his lips. “Ain’t any way you could call Chaff? I’d like to talk to him.”

She let out a small sigh and reached out to place a hand on his wrist. She made sure to keep her touch light, though. “Chaff died a long time ago, Haymitch. We told you earlier, do you remember?”

If he did, it must have been fuzzy because he made a face, slid his arm away from her so she would let go and continued chopping vegetables into tiny pieces.

“Right.” he muttered. “Right. The woman said so. _Katniss_.” He sounded proud enough to have remembered the girl’s name that Effie gave him an encouraging smile. “Anyone else I can talk to? From before. Mags? Seeder?” She shook her head and he scowled, his fingers clenching around the knife. “Everyone else died and _I_’m still kicking? The _fuck _did this world come down to…”

“Beetee is still around.” she offered. “We could call him, if you wish. But… you are not that close anymore.”

He considered it and then refused with a brief shake of his head. Silence fell back while they drank their tea. It was uncomfortable and she couldn’t remember the last time she had been uncomfortable with him.

“How did we end up together, then?” he asked after a few minutes and at the tension in his voice she wondered how long he had been debating asking. “‘Cause Katniss’s more my type, you know.”

“Katniss is twenty-five years your junior and she is, for all intents and purposes, your adoptive daughter.” she snapped. “Do not even _go _there.”

He snorted. “I’ve seen my face in the mirror, sweetheart. Even if I wanted to, I don’t know who would go for _that_ guy. Surely not someone half my age.”

“_More_ than half your age.” she growled and then she pursed her lips. “You _are _handsome, what are you talking about?”

He looked at her as if she was crazy and then shrugged. “I just meant I’m more into dark hair, anyway. Can’t remember ever crushing on a blonde.”

“I am the exception to a lot of your rules or so you like to claim.” she retorted smugly. His eyebrows shot up but he remained silent so she sighed and looked back down at the mug of tea cradled between her hands. “It started with sex.”

He didn’t seem entirely surprised by that. He smirked and kept on chopping the vegetables. “Course it did.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I thought I didn’t… How did you put it… Get you hot?”

“Might have lied a little about that part.” he snorted. “But you're a bitch and you're Capitol. Didn’t lie about _that_.”

She couldn't suppress the flinch and she pretended not to see his frown. “I was never your enemy you know. In time, you learned to see that.”

“If you say so.” he muttered, standing up to grab a pot and finish the vegetable soup.

“I love you.” she whispered, a little glad that it was _his_ turn to flinch.

She didn’t apologize though.

She stood up and carried her mug to the living-room, relieved when he didn't try to follow her.

O°0°0°0°0

Haymitch was sitting crossed-legged in the middle of the bed, staring at one of the framed pictures he had snatched from the wall. He wasn’t sure how old the picture was, a few years maybe. On it, he had his arms firmly around Trinket, as if he had been trying to lift her up, and she had been caught mid-laugh. It was a pretty picture, it breathed out joy.

And he couldn’t remember the moment no matter how hard he tried.

The headache was getting worse and he should probably have followed instructions and gotten some rest but dinner had raised more and more questions. Trinket had steadily avoided him all day - although she always was behind him when he really needed something so he supposed she _had _been keeping an eye on him - and he had almost been grateful for the company when Katniss and Peeta had showed up. Except they had then all started talking about the going ons of the District and Haymitch had been entirely lost, wondering if there even was one soul left alive he used to know.

Retreating for the night had been awkward. He had lingered in the kitchen, uncertain of where he should sleep and refusing to admit it. This was his own _goddam_ house, after all. He _could _use his bedroom if he wanted to. But he also didn’t really want to sleep with Trinket next to him and… She had saved him from his misery by telling him to take their bedroom.

He had lied down a ground total of five minutes, long enough to realize the sheets smelled like her and, worse, that he actually liked the smell. He had buried his face in her pillow and the comfort had been immediate. The strange feeling had almost been enough to make him regret not telling her they could share. It had also spooked him enough that he now _desperately _wanted to remember.

That was how he had ended up staring at that framed picture but nothing was coming.

There had been more framed pictures on the fireplace and maybe he could find a photo album downstairs… Maybe _something _would jog his memory…

It was better than obsessing over the fact he would never be able to sleep without a drink.

_That_ was strange. He felt the thirst and he wanted a glass of something alcoholic but he didn’t _crave _it. Not physically at least. It had been so long since he hadn’t craved a drink at regular intervals that a part of him was still waiting for the tremors to start and the cramps to kick in.

He tried not to make too much noise when he slipped out of the bedroom. It was very late now and the house was dark so he kept close to the wall, never at ease in the darkness. He wasn’t sure where he kept his knife nowadays but it wasn’t under his pillow and he hadn’t been carrying it when he had come out of the hospital.

He froze at the top of the stairs and frowned when he spotted the halo of light spilling out of the living-room. He made sure to avoid the creaking steps as he stepped closer to the threshold, not quite sure what he was expecting.

The TV was on - it was new, he noticed belatedly, which was weird enough because he hardly ever watched it - but the volume was turned so low it was barely a murmur. He wasn’t sure what the program was about, it looked like a movie or maybe a TV show… What was certain was that it couldn’t be _that _interesting because Trinket had fallen asleep in front of it.

She was curled up on her side on the couch, blond hair spread under her head in a mess of glorious curls that immediately made his guts tighten in… He wanted to touch her hair, run his fingers through the strands, tangle them around his hand and…

He licked his lips and took the rest of her in. She was old, older than he remembered certainly, but she had aged well. And the pink nightgown wasn’t helping him remember that he had sworn he would never touch her with a ten feet pole. There was a lot of creamy skin exposed and he _really _wanted to _touch. _

She had said their relationship had started with sex and he could understand why.

At least, he supposed, one of the questions he hadn’t really felt like asking out loud was answered. He might have been fifty and his body might have been through a lot of abuse but everything was still working in his pants.

She looked cold though.

He spotted a well-worn tartan rug on the back of an armchair and tossed it over her, not letting himself second-guess. A part of him was screaming she was the enemy, another part was reminding him that for reasons unknown he had married her and that meant he had to take care of her no matter what.

He crouched next to the couch once she was all tucked in, not really knowing why. At least not until he found himself reaching out to brush her hair off her face.

She took a long breath in and let out a small sleepy hum, her lips stretching into a smile. “Haymitch…”

“Sorry.” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” Her eyelids fluttered open and the smile blossomed into something tender and _loving_ and… How did they go from hurling insults at each other to _this_? He cleared his throat. “Thought you’d take a guestroom, you know. I could have taken the couch.”

The moment she realized this wasn’t like any other night was obvious. Sadness replaced tenderness and he averted his eyes because… He wasn’t sure. It just was hard to watch.

“It is alright.” she answered eventually. “I do not sleep well without you either way so…” She frowned. “You shouldn’t be crouching. Your knees…”

His knees were starting to hurt. Being old _sucked_.

He used the armrest to haul himself back up and followed his original plan to go inspect the pictures on display on the mantelpiece. He heard her turn the TV off but one picture in particular had caught his eyes and he grabbed it, staring at the little boy who was perched on his shoulders.

“He ain’t ours, yeah?” he asked with more urgency and fear than he had felt ever since he had woken up. If he had _completely _forgotten his son…

She sat up, curled up against the back of the couch, and shook her head. “I couldn’t have children.”

“Ah.” he said flatly because it was the only thing he could think about saying. He frowned. “Did we try?”

That seemed to amuse her for some reason.

“You never wanted children, Haymitch.” she reminded him patiently. “Besides, we weren’t that young when the rebels took over and we already had Katniss and Peeta. They are ours in every way that counts.”

He nodded because, for some reason, that made sense and then looked back down at the kid on the picture. “Who’s he?”

“Finn.” She smiled. “That picture was taken a few years ago, now. He has grown much bigger. He is...”

“Finnick’s son.” he finished, without a clue as to who Finnick was. He frowned and stared at the picture harder. “Finnick is… Important.”

“Yes.” she whispered. “He was.”

_Was_.

_Dead_.

One more.

He put the picture down and grabbed another. One of the two of them kissing. It was a pretty picture even if it was obvious it had been taken without their notice.

“Do you remember who Finnick is?” she probed.

“No.” He shrugged, brushing his fingers on the glass. “We look happy.”

“We _are _happy.” she replied. “We are… What did you do with your token?”

The question was rushed and a bit panicked and he looked up to frown at her. “My what now?”

His token was a pink frayed ribbon that he was used to carrying everywhere but, like the knife, he hadn’t been able to find it anywhere. He hadn’t really let himself think about it because he figured if he was married to Trinket now, she might not have appreciated him holding on to one of his girl’s ribbons.

“Your token.” she insisted, her blue eyes riveted to his wrist. “The bangle? You had it when you left the hospital. You…”

“Ah, the gold manacle thing?” he snorted. “Left it on your dressing table. Figured it was yours or some _shit_… It’s _fucking _ugly, it’s heavy and it’s all banged up.”

Hurt flashed on her face but he wasn’t sure what he had done _now_.

Her shoulders relaxed though. “As long as it is safe…”

“Why is it so important?” he asked. He was wearing it on all the pictures, he suddenly noticed.

“I gave it to you.” she explained and then sighed.

His eyebrows shot up. “As a _token_?” 

“During the Quell.” she confirmed. “It’s been… Well, it has become something of… You wear it like a wedding ring, I suppose.”

She was hesitant, as if she wasn’t entirely sure.

He placed the picture down and, after a moment of deliberation, sat down on the opposite end of the couch. There was still plenty of space between them.

“I don’t remember why I love you.” he stated. She flinched but, unlike earlier, it wasn’t what he had been after. He rubbed the back of his neck. “But… I _must _love you. I mean… Look at the pictures and the house and the geese and the kids… This is all… _Very _strange.”

“I understand.” She offered him an understanding smile that was a little strained. “Hopefully, you will feel better tomorrow already. The doctor was confident the amnesia wouldn’t last.”

“My head feels like it’s splitting in two.” he admitted with a sigh.

“There are painkillers in the bathroom cabinet.” she reminded him.

She had already told him that, hadn’t she? Earlier? Some stuff just wasn’t sticking in his brain. He had to hope she was right and it would get better the next day. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so lost. Maybe…

He thought back on the fruity smell that clung to the pillows and how much better he had felt breathing it in…

“You should come up with me.” he suggested. “We can share the bed.”

She frowned. “Won’t you mind? I know you _hated _having someone in your bed when we met…”

“Yeah, well…” He shrugged, averting his eyes. “Seems like nowadays I hate it more when it’s empty. What do I know? _You _tell me. You’re the one with twenty years worth of memories.”

She reached out to grab his hand and, this time, he didn’t try to shrug her off. 

“We can try.” she offered. “If you’re uncomfortable I can crash in one of the guestrooms.”

As it turned out, though, he was very _far _from uncomfortable.

It was _awkward, _particularly after she snuggled against his side, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For as clumsy as he felt wrapping his arm around her body, it also felt _natural_.

And when he closed his eyes this time, he wasn’t as scared.

°O°0°0°0°0°0°0°0

Effie woke up trapped in powerful arms, a leg pressed between hers and something hard poking her backside. She smiled before she even properly opened her eyes, not quite surprised to see the room was already full of light. Nobody had drawn the curtains the previous night and the sunlight spilled in. It didn’t bother her because it was rare they ever slept in complete darkness anymore.

She knew Haymitch was awake. It was like a sixth sense - and because he tensed when he realized she was now awake too. His left arm was under her neck and his right one was wrapped around her body in such a way his forearm was resting between her breasts. It was intimate. She didn’t mind that either.

“How are you feeling today?” she hummed, closing her eyes again. There was nothing pressing to do, they could afford to lie in a little. And she was never in any hurry to escape Haymitch’s warmth.

“The headache’s gone.” he mumbled against her nape. “I feel good.”

“Evidently.” she grinned, pushing her butt back a little just to tease him.

He groaned. The thigh that was between her legs also rose up a notch, pressing against her core.

“Now I’m starting to get how we ended up married.” he snorted. “You’re _fucking _hot…”

“You did not think so yesterday.” she remarked. “Or when we met apparently.”

“I lied.” he said quickly, his mouth dropping a kiss on her shoulder before moving to the side of her neck. “Or I was stupid.”

She chuckled and instinctively stretched, which gave him better access to… a lot of things. The kisses on her neck became more pressing.

“We are not having sex.” she warned. “Do not work yourself up.”

“Why not?” he countered. “You want it.”

“For the same reason I never had sex with you while I was sober and you were drunk.” she retorted. “You are not yourself.”

“Arguable.” he decided, his hand trailing down between her breasts. “_And _I remember stuff now that my head doesn’t feel like it’s gonna explode.”

“Yes?” She didn’t dare hope the amnesia nightmare was over but, unlike the previous day, he didn’t seem eager to run away or curse her name because she had once been an escort… “What do you remember?”

His answer was a little muffled because he breathed it out against her neck. “Your birthday.”

“You _never _remember my birthday.” she scoffed but rolled on her back so she could look at him.

That gave him all the room he needed to kick off the sheets and prop himself up on his elbow. He looked down at her with a smirk and twinkling eyes.

“It’s in summer.” he said confidently. She waited but nothing more precise came so she pouted and he rolled his eyes. “I also remember you have to drink two cups of coffee in the morning before you’re awake enough to have a conversation. And that you’ve pushed me in the ocean once…”

There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if the memories didn’t quite make sense to him but had cemented his belief that _this _was very real.

“You deserved it.” she mocked, brushing his hair back. There were more silver strands than dirty blond nowadays but she liked it that way. “What else?”

He licked his lips, uncertain and vulnerable like he rarely allowed himself to be. “I never wanted to wake up without you in my bed again… I… I lost you at some point, yeah? I… missed you.”

“I am here now.” she promised, unable to bear his distress.

His smirk slowly came back and he leaned in to nuzzle her collarbone, not so subtly pushing the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder with his nose. “Yeah, you are.”

“Haymitch…” she laughed, cradling the back of his head.

“We’re married. You’re _really _gonna refuse your husband who almost died yesterday?” he taunted, drawing back to look at her.

Truth be told, she wouldn’t have really minded letting him do as he pleased if only…

“Twenty-nine year-old you hates me.” she reminded him. “And I do not want to revisit our hate sex period.”

A crease appeared between his eyebrows and she brushed her fingertip against it to make it go away.

He shook his head. “I’m fifty not thirty, sweetheart. And it’s less… _fuzzy _than yesterday. Maybe I’m still a little confused but I know I don’t hate you. We’re a team, yeah?”

An easy smile appeared on her lips. “Always.”

He smirked and brushed his mouth against hers, bumping their noses together. “I’m not sure of much but I’m sure I want you.”

She chuckled. “Not your best line. But have me, then.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. It seemed he had only been waiting for her permission. Before she knew it, she was panting and ready for much more than his simple caresses. She didn't tell him to take a move on though because his mouth had stopped on one of the scars for the third time.

There were too many of them for him to miss.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I told you. I was captured by the Capitol.” she whispered. The desire that had been building in faded a little. She never liked remembering _that_.

_Captured_ was an euphemism for _tortured. _It was one she used a lot.

“But you’re a Capitol citizen.” he frowned. “You’re an escort.”

She sighed. “I was _your _escort. I was _yours.”_

Bitterness and guilt flashed on his face. “Then, I should have protected you better.”

He _must _have been feeling better than the previous day because it was quite a change of tune from his _I hate escorts _refrain.

“It wasn’t your fault.” she whispered.

“Don’t lie to me.” he snapped, jerking away from her.

She watched him sit there with his face in his hands as he tried to _remember_ for a while and then she sat up too and pressed a long kiss against his shoulder.

“I break everything I touch.” he spat. “That's why I never wanted another girlfriend to begin with. Now I’ve got you hurt and we still ended up _married_? I should have let you go. I should have kept you safe from me.”

“You did. You tried.” she whispered. “I refused to let you do it.”

“Stupid.” he scoffed.

She kissed his skin again, trail her hand across the broad pane of his shoulder blades… “I often am when you are concerned. But, to be fair, you are also quite stupid and reckless when it comes to me.”

He let out a deep long sigh. “You got hurt.”

“I survived.” she countered. “_We_ survived. It’s behind us now.”

He dropped his hands to look at her, searching her face long and hard. “Is it, though?”

At another point in time, a few years earlier, she couldn’t have answered that honestly. Not really.

“Yes.” she said firmly. “It is.” She gently shoved him back until he lied down and straddled him. Another proof that he was _really_ getting better: he didn’t try to roll them over her or push her away – twenty-nine year-old Haymitch wouldn’t have been able to bear it. “I love you.”

He didn’t flinch, which she took as another good sign. He had stopped flinching a couple of years ago when she said it. He had even offered the words back a few times – not enough that she couldn’t count them on one hand but each of those times had been special.

His grey eyes slowly roamed over her body before finding her gaze back.

“I remember something else.” he said, his lips stretching into a smirk. “You’re very good at sex.”

She rolled her eyes…

But proceeded to prove him right.

°O°O°O°O°

Haymitch kept expecting the headache to come back but it never did. Not when he lingered under the warm water of the shower and not when he eventually made his way downstairs with a spring in his steps.

He found Effie in the kitchen wearily staring at the pan on the stove. She flashed him a knowing look and one of those sexy grins.

“Someone is chipper.” she teased.

“You ain’t supposed to work the stove. You can’t be trusted not to light the house on fire.” he reminded her before he could think it through. And yet as soon as it had slipped past his lips he knew it was true.

“I see your memories _are _coming back.” she chuckled. “Well, in that case, I won’t have any remorse taking advantage of your superior skills in the kitchen. You can cook me breakfast.”

He wordlessly took her spot behind the stove to rescue the burning eggs, pressing a kiss on her neck when he passed her.

It all felt so _right_…

He stole more kisses during the course of breakfast and while they were doing the dishes afterwards too. 

The kids looked a little cautious when they eventually wandered in mid-morning, probably not sure they hadn’t murdered each other, but the weariness soon turned into annoyance when they saw just how handsy Haymitch was behaving.

“It’s like our second honeymoon.” he grumbled when Katniss made a reflection too many. “_Fuck_ _off_.”

“Language.” Effie chided with a frown but she made no move to escape his arms or his lips so he figured she wasn’t _that _opposed to the touching…

Were they usually that affectionate? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t really care either. He felt like hugging her and kissing her and he didn’t see why he would deny himself when she was obviously willing.

He kissed her straight on the mouth just to irritate Katniss a little more and, because it was too good to pass, he deepened the kiss until the girl dragged her boyfriend away to their own house and left them alone.

“You are impossible.” Effie rebuked, shaking her head.

And yet she did nothing to stop him when he pulled her back upstairs to the bed. When he slipped back the golden bangle around his wrist, where it belonged, she even rewarded him very generously and he was very happy to have, at least, remembered he never took it off.

His memories remained jumbled for a few days but eventually all fell back into their rightful places.

“You know…” he hummed into her neck as they spooned a few nights later. “I’m almost sorry I remember everything now…”

She tensed against him and he tightened his embrace.

“Why?” she huffed, aiming at levity but unable to entirely hide the strain in her voice. “Did you like it better when you hated me?”

“’Course not.” He scowled, dropping a kiss on her shoulder. “Just… It was like falling for you a second time, that’s all. Wasn’t all that bad.”

She immediately relaxed. “Oh…” She twisted her neck to look at him over her shoulder so he obliged by pecking her lips. There was a twinkle in her eyes though. “Don’t you wish you could have escaped my evil clutches?”

He rolled his eyes with fondness. “Nah. I quite like your evil clutches.”

“So… You would _choose _to fall for me again, given the choice?” she insisted.

“Didn’t I just say that?” he mocked. “Now who’s got amnesia?”

She gave him a light elbow nudge, careful to avoid the forever tender parts of his stomach.

“I would too, you know.” she offered, more seriously. “We had a lot of difficult times and a lot of good ones too but I think this part, right now, is my favorite…”

“Waiting to see if it was a short bout of amnesia or early dementia kicking in?” he taunted. The nudge was harder this time.

“_Growing old together_.” she hissed, pursing her lips tight. “Although who knows why I bother…”

“Cause you’d be so lost without me…” he chuckled in her neck. “You’d starve for starters…”

“The children would feed me.” she countered but rolled around so she could embrace him back properly. She didn’t give him time to keep the banter going, she let out a long sigh. “I would, you know. Be lost without you. I thought we agreed you would not scare me like that again for some time. I am quite tired of worrying you are going to die on me.”

“Last time. Promise.” he muttered in her hair. “Ain’t cleaning gutters ever again.”

“We can pay young people to do strenuous chores.” she agreed. “Or Katniss can do it.”

“Would too, you know.” he awkwardly confessed after a while, pressing his mouth against her forehead. “Be lost without you.”

“As it should be.” she whispered.

And she had a point there…

Everything was as it should be. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! To be honest this one in my WIP so I decided to finish it for the week. I think there was a prompt about that too in my huge folder so... here we go! Three birds with one very long one shot ;) 
> 
> Did you like it? Let me know!


End file.
